


Echoes of the End

by mainecoon76



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Rebuilding Erebor, Supernatural Elements, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lonely Mountain finally belongs to the dwarves again, but they paid a bitter price when they lost their king and both his heirs in its defense. Now Dwalin and his friends are trying to cope with their grief and repair what is left of the broken kingdom, so that one day it may thrive again. It takes them some time to notice that the ruins are not as empty as they expected them to be...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed now! Huge thanks - as usual! - to mrs_sweetpeach, AKA Haven on AO3.
> 
> I realized while writing this that it starts with several pages without any dialogue. Usually I try to avoid that, but I decided to keep it here because Dwalin is not in a talkative mood at this point. The mixture of morose introspection and matter-of-fact report of the proceedings is rather how I imagine his state of mind after BotFA, so it's not a stylistic faux pas but a conscious decision. But things happen, and his attitude changes... somewhat.
> 
> Written for Dworin Week 2015, prompt: supernatural

Erebor, the golden kingdom of the dwarves, is meant to be a place of beauty and life. The large halls are supposed to be filled with laughter and enterprise, with dwarven craftsmen and artists and officials bustling along endlessly spiraling staircases and across railingless bridges. The noise of raucous feasts should sound from the banquet halls and the clatter of axes and soldiers' curses from the training grounds. One should have to take care not to stumble over children chasing after tiny mechanical oliphaunts, or bump into scholars with stacks of books and parchments on their way to the library, and the markets should be overflowing with precious goods from all corners of Middle Earth.

This is what Dwalin remembers. It has been vivid in his heart for more than a century, kept alive by wistful talks by the fire, by shared dreams of a better future that would see him and his loved ones back where they belonged, together and home and finally whole again.

Now the kingdom is reclaimed and the dragon is slain, but Dwalin will never be whole again. And as he walks the ruined, echoing halls of the Mountain, he knows that Erebor will never be what it once was.

They were fools to return. Erebor was lost long ago, and now the blind determination to deny their fate has claimed the lives of Thorin and both his nephews. Oh, how they dreamt to rebuild the old glory side by side, the rightful king and his most faithful friend. Instead they found only madness and death and a kingdom that is vast and empty and broken. Those who survived the battle have begun to make repairs already, but they have barely moved beyond the few rooms around the entrance, with the exception of the large chamber deep beneath the rock where Dwalin's heart lies buried along with those he loved more than his own life.

His aimless wandering has taken him to a corridor that used to lead toward the lower training grounds. None of them has ventured this far from the main gate yet, but they are as good a place to see as any, and he is not expected back within the next few hours. Exploring the ruins is a necessity, though strictly speaking they are not supposed to go alone; but Dwalin has little patience for anyone but Balin these days, and Balin is otherwise occupied. So he strolls along the well-trodden path, idly running his hand over the wall of greenish stone that is sprinkled with flecks of gold and trying to recall where each of the side doors and crossroads lead. 

The wave of panic hits him out of nowhere. Suddenly the air around him seems to freeze into a crystal mass of ice. He cannot move his feet, even while his mind is flooded with the overwhelming urge to turn away and run as fast as he can. With an effort he breaks free of the invisible hold, only to lose his balance and stumble blindly against the wall.

Then the ceiling crashes down.

It is pure reflex that makes him huddle against the wall and cover his face. When the dust clears, his paralyzing fear simply vanishes along with it. He shakes off the rubble and holds up his lamp, and in the flickering light of the candle he sees enough to become aware of two facts.

The first is that the rest of this tunnel seems perfectly solid. There are no visible cracks, and it does not look like the dragon was here at all. Dwarven stonework does not wither in a century or two. There is no explanation of why a part of this structure broke down so suddenly.

Second, the momentary surge of panic saved his life. One step further would have brought him to a painful death.

 

Not much happens in the next few weeks, and although he never forgets the incident, other worries take precedence. He is grateful for them because they give him something to do. There are repairs to be made, wounds to be tended and bodies to be recovered. The humans of Laketown need their aid, for the winter is harsh and their homes are burnt, and Dáin has declared in unmistakable terms that Erebor shall never turn away fugitives, regardless of their race. The delicate negotiations with the Woodland realm rest on the shoulders of the newly crowned king and on Balin, but Balin's worry has always been Dwalin's as well. He is grateful beyond measure for Dáin's political prowess, his unwavering loyalty and strength; yet when the day is done, when their cousin takes off the crown that was never meant for him and rubs a hand across his weary face, the toll it is taking on him is plain to see by the select few who are allowed to do so. While the dwarves of Erebor have regained their home, Dáin has lost his own. He will never be able to return to the Iron Hills, except perhaps for a brief stately visit.

There is no joy left in Dwalin's life, but during the day he keeps himself so busy that he is mostly able to suppress his overwhelming grief, which he considers a remarkable achievement. It does not shield him in the wee hours of the morning when, in the dream-like state between waking and sleeping, he reaches for a body beside him and finds none. Each single morning the knowledge that Thorin will never again wake up by his side hits him like a falling rock and crushes him just as thoroughly. More often than not he awakens in the middle of the night, tortured by visions of lifeless blue eyes and dark blood pooling on a river of ice. Each day he momentarily forgets and then he spots Kíli's bright face in the crowd,  
or a young dwarf with golden hair passes him on the way to the forges and he almost calls out. He cannot count the times he has turned to meet Thorin's eye, sharing a thought without speaking it aloud, before he remembered. But by and large, he gets along.

 

One day three months after the battle a group of five Iron Hills soldiers sets out to clear the path toward the Northern emerald mine. They do not return. Their tools are found abandoned in one of deep tunnels, without any hint as to why they were left behind. The search for them claims two lives when a stairway collapses for no apparent reason, and another when a guardswoman slips on a narrow bridge and tumbles to her death. But the lost soldiers are not found.

Dwalin dreams of Thorin that night, and this time it is no dream of ice and blood. His friend is shouting at him, but he cannot understand a single word.

It is not Dáin's way to abandon his people in the face of adversary, even though their chances of survival diminish with every hour. On the second day of the search Dwalin is teamed up with Balin, Bifur and Bofur to cover a previously uncharted maze of tunnels that connects the emerald mines in the North with the large storage rooms in the lower levels.

Their steps echo in the empty halls as they descend on endless stairs deeper and deeper into the mountain. They walk in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Bifur and Bofur marvel at the sheer size of the mines. Dwalin admires the fine stonework, the brilliant architecture that blends the dwarven craftsmanship seamlessly with the structure of the rock beneath. He wishes that Thorin were here to see it.

Here and there they find reminders of the mining work that used to be done down here, sheds with dust-covered tools or mechanical devices used for the transport of rocks. In a small storage room they discover three mummified bodies half-buried under fallen debris. But there is no sign of the missing soldiers.

Eventually they reach a spacious hall made of green marble, so large that they can hardly see the wall on the far side in the half-light even with their sharp dwarven eyes. Chairs and tables are arranged in rows, and the whole room is cluttered with boxes of jewels, leather-bound books, scales, weights, measuring rules and other tools Dwalin has never seen before. The dwarves who worked here must have left in a hurry and never returned, for now the things they left behind are covered by a thick layer of dust. 

Bifur is the first to speak. _I do not think we will find them here,_ he says in his ancient tongue. _This room looks untouched. Why is it so warm down here?_

Bofur looks up sharply from the box of emeralds beside the door that evidently distracted him for a moment. "Too warm," the miner agrees with a frown, and now that he voices the thought, Dwalin knows that he is right. There are no torches and fires lit beside their own feeble lamps, no reasonable explanation for the warmth that seems to grow stronger with every moment. Dwalin has the strange feeling that something is moving around them, something he cannot touch, and the air seems to be vibrating in the darkness like it usually does in the summer heat.

Balin raises his lamp and steps further into the hall. The faint light does not reach the walls and throws flickering shadows on the ground.

A wave of cold sweeps over Dwalin, and his feet stop of their own accord. There is a loud ringing in his ears, and he curses his own weakness. Is he so broken that he cannot even be of use in one simple mission?

"Don't you think," Bofur says slowly, "that there's a strange smell around here?"

"Must be the lamps," Balin suggests, not sounding convinced in the slightest, and he is wrong because it is not the lamps, not at all, and the ringing turns into a voice Dwalin knows, muffled shouts that make him freeze in terror.

_get out get out get out_

The air smells of smoke. There is a rumble in the deep, and the strange scratching sounds of giant claws on hard stone.

_GET OUT OF HERE, YOU THICK-HEADED FOOLS_

Dwalin whirls around and grabs Bifur's arm. "Balin! We must leave this place! Quick!"

His friends trust him implicitly and don't waste time for explanations. Together they barge out of the room and run back along the corridor and up the narrow staircase, slowing only at a safe distance.

The halls behind them are black and silent.

 

"I can only tell what was there," Dwalin says irritably. "Smoke in the air. Strange sounds. Reeked of danger."

Balin narrows his eyes and says nothing. Bofur looks confused. He was not there when the dragon came, so he will not remember the sights and sounds that are burned into Dwalin's memory, but Balin must know. Bifur probably knows as well because he always knows things, but he just leans against the wall and watches Dwalin expectantly.

"If there was another dragon down there, we'd know about it," Balin declares at last, which makes Bofur's eyes go wide as dinner plates.

For a moment none of them says a word. Not a single sound is heard from the depths. The voice in Dwalin's head is silent.

"Let us go back and find Dáin," Balin decides eventually. "We must tell him about this."

As they climb up the endless stairs toward the upper levels, Dwalin cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched. But there is no one behind him.

 

It is late when he returns to the chamber he has taken to share with Balin, bone tired but unable to rest, while the events of the day whirl in his head like large mechanical wheel. He sinks down onto the soft furs that make his bed and leans his head against the wall.

A draft of cold air wafts through the room. The lamp starts to flicker.

He sits up, suddenly alert. It is a long shot for sure, but he knows what he heard, and if there is only the slightest chance he will gladly make a fool of himself.

"Thorin?"

The lamp flickers again. Dwalin stares at the flame as it continues to undulate although the air surrounding it is stuffy and unmoving.

Thorin never had much use for ghosts. When they were young, he and Dwalin would delight in spooky stories by the fire, and sometimes they would sneak off into dark tunnels and forgotten chambers and dare each other not to turn around when the air grew chilly around them. But Erebor had fallen and their careless youth had ended too early, and grown-up Thorin was far too practical to worry about lingering spirits of the dead. Dwalin has never been entirely sure, but he has not given the matter much thought.

Now he thinks that perhaps he should have.

"You're here, ghivashel, aren't you? You're trying to tell me something?"

The small flame dances in an invisible breeze, and then it dies. Dwalin leans back into the furs and lets the cold air surround him. If this is indeed a ghost, he does not fear it.

He dreams again that night, but in the morning the visions are gone.

 

The King Under The Mountain is most decidedly not amused. He paces his writing chamber in silent wrath while Balin holds his ground, looking thoroughly unruffled and patiently waiting for him to speak his mind. Bofur is looking from one to the other in notable unease. The miner may have known Thorin and his family for many decades, but still he does not walk lightly in the company of kings and politicians. It was another story entirely when the kings and politicians in question were living a humble life among their fellow craftsmen. Their new status could hardly be more different.

Bifur watches the scene with interest.

"I don't know what it is," Dáin snaps eventually and glares at Balin as though it was his personal responsibility, "but it is not a dragon."

"Never said it was," Balin returns placidly.

"If it was a dragon," the king continues, his volume rising steadily, "it would be in the treasure chamber, not in the mines. Besides, it's not as if there's room down there for such a giant beast. You were there, Balin, for Mahal's sake, you saw what he did to the front door!"

"Dáin," Balin interrupts him calmly as if he were trying to soothe an agitated battle pig. "I do not think that there is a dragon in the mines."

Dáin throws himself into a chair and runs a hand through his beard. The exchange is an almost verbatim repeat of the discussion they led the evening before, and they are running in circles. Dwalin wonders if he should speak of his own outrageous suspicions.

"Something's wrong," the king admits after a long pause. All the fight seems to have left him in a heartbeat. Now he looks only drawn and tired. "This is the third incident this week. People disappear, stairways collapse, and now you talk about dragon noises. By the Maker, Balin, if it wasn't you telling me... But there's nothing for it." He looks at each of them in turn. "Suggestions?"

"Well..." Balin muses, "We should certainly try to get to the heart of the matter, so I suggest we mark the sites on a map and ..."

But Dwalin is not listening.

The air in the room has suddenly become stifling. The papers on Dáin's desk rustle in a dry, hot wind. Peals of sweat have appeared on Bofur's forehead.

Balin breaks off, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Then Dwalin is enveloped by a familiar wave of cold. He turns around to see Thorin standing beside him.

His friend looks just like he did when they laid him to rest, strikingly beautiful his simple chain mail and the dark leather coat, and the sudden pain in Dwalin's chest nearly chokes him. But there is no time to give into it, because Thorin's eyes are wide with terror and he is pointing urgently towards the door. He seems to be shouting at the top of his voice, but no sound comes out. Dwalin reacts in an instant." _Out, now!_ " he screams and throws himself towards Dáin. 

The chamber bursts into flames.

There is a whirl of fire and smoke and incoherent shouts as all five of them scramble for the exit. Dwalin clutches Dáin's robes, and then there is a strong arm around his waist as his cousin holds onto him and drags him forward. The hot air is burning his lungs and bringing tears to his eyes. Someone is coughing violently, and there is a crash and a cry of pain. Dáin shoves him through the door and turns around, just to see their friends stumble out of the flames and into their arms, each on his own feet and blissfully alive. The king roars a command to his guards, but before anyone can set off the alarm and get help to extinguish the fire, the noise behind them stops abruptly. 

Dáin grabs Dwalin's arm so hard that there will be bruises, but Dwalin feels no pain. Instead he stares at the scene in utter disbelief.

No more than a smoldering mess is left of the king's study, but the fire has vanished without a trace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: Even if you've already read the first part, don't jump right to the second. The story became much longer than I expected, and so I changed the chapter break - meaning that the first chapter is longer now.

When Dwalin enters his chamber a few hours later, the floor is covered in a thick layer of ice. It looks very much like a frozen river. Dwalin is profoundly grateful that there are no bloodstains added for dramatic effect.

"Good to see you're here, Thorin," he says, and then suddenly he finds himself breaking into a grin because he is talking to _Thorin_ and Thorin is dead and he never thought he would speak to his friend again.

The ice cracks and fades away. Instead the figure of a dwarrow appears on the far side of the room, faint and translucent but unmistakably Thorin. He lifts his hands and looks at them in wonder.

"I am getting stronger," he says, sounding awed.

Dwalin grabs the wall to prevent himself from doubling over. Thorin's voice, so familiar and beloved and believed silenced forever. Thorin's frame, tall and strong and broad-shouldered, his long dark hair, the handsome face Dwalin has loved as long as he can remember and last saw when it was white and still. The king looked peaceful in death. Now he looks just like he did when he was alive, and Dwalin does not know whether he wants to scream in joy or pain.

Instead he draws a deep breath, and his voice is steady when he finds it again.

"You can talk to me?"

Thorin looks up in utter surprise before a happy smile brightens his features. "I have been talking to you for weeks, but you could never hear me."

Dwalin steps quickly towards him but stops short just before he is close enough to touch. He knows without being told that this apparition is not corporeal. It would be unbearable to try and draw his lost friend into his arms again, only to have his hands pass through thin air.

Thorin gives him a long, knowing look. 

"Well," Dwalin manages at last, "I'm glad you're here. I wish I'd been able to… say goodbye. At the time. Tell you all the things I wanted to say. But we never did that before a battle, did we?"

"No, and there was no need. I know all of it." Thorin lifts his hand as if to reach out to him, but drops it to his side again. "I am so sorry, my friend. It could not be helped."

"I know."

"And there was nothing you could have done."

Dwalin sighs and averts his eyes. Of course his friend knows him well enough to see right into his heart, but there is no changing the facts. He accompanied his king and the princes to protect them with his own life. He lived; they did not. There is no more to be said about it.

"Thorin," he says instead as he drops heavily onto his bed. The ghost hovers beside him, looking wistful. "Thorin, what is happening here?"

Thorin's exasperated face is achingly familiar.

"Ghosts," he explains with a sigh.

"Figured that much."

"Very funny, smart-mouth. It's not me you have to worry about. I'm only here because I couldn't leave you alone in a place like this, with no idea of what you're up against."

Dwalin feels a painful surge of affection. He blinks and fixes his gaze on his tattooed hands.

"What are we up against, then?"

Thorin sits down beside him. Dwalin finds it immensely distracting to be so close to his friend, yet be unable to run a hand over the strong thighs and touch the cropped black beard. He has cherished Thorin's body for over a century, but now he finds that he never worshipped it quite enough while he still could. Thorin smiles sadly when their eyes meet, and Dwalin can tell that they still understand each other without words.

"They are ghosts too," his friend explains instead. "Those who lingered after the burning. Most of the dead moved on, but some refused to let go. They have been here ever since."

"So they are dead dwarves? Victims of the dragon attack?"

Unbidden visions come to Dwalin's mind, faces of those who were lost to the fire or crushed under the ruins. Friends, relatives, acquaintances and mentors, his own beloved mother.

"Yes," Thorin returns blandly.

"But why do they attack us? We belong here. We are rebuilding their home and restoring their memory. Should they not welcome us here?"

"It is not their fault. They are not what they used to be." Thorin frowns. "We are not meant to linger, Dwalin. It is not in our nature. Those who do become bitter and spiteful after a time. Their souls are twisted and angry. They will attack all who cross their path, not knowing them for friend or foe."

They exchange a meaningful glance, one of those Dwalin has sought in vain ever since Thorin's death. He cannot help but smile despite the unsettling news.

"So what is it we're supposed to do, then?"

"You must help them to move on. I do not know how. You cannot reason with them. But as long as they are here, this kingdom is not safe."

Dwalin nods and begins to scratch the dirt off his belt buckle. "Thorin," he says at last, voicing the thought that has been torturing him ever since he saw Fíli's body lying dead in the snow. "I wish we had left it to them."

Thorin is silent for a long while. 

"We had to try," he says at last. "It is not in our nature to give up like this."

"But the price was too high."

"We all knew it could come to that. But yes. Maybe the price was too high." 

They both know he is not talking about himself.

"Did you see them?" Dwalin asks softly, though he is not sure he wants to know the answer.

"No. They moved on. I didn't." Thorin draws a deep breath, which is entirely for show because he is dead and surely has no need for air. "Listen, my friend, you are all doing well. Thanks to you, Erebor will thrive again. I am grateful beyond measure to have such friends, and I will not let our work be destroyed by a bunch of vengeful ghosts."

"Over your dead body, eh?" Dwalin grumbles, knowing full well that it is a spectacularly tasteless joke. Thorin's chuckle sounds slightly unhinged. 

"Precisely. Now off you go, tell Dáin and the others about this. Come up with some sort of plan. We always had a plan, right? Even when your brother called us a pair of childish orc-brains."

Dwalin remembers that particular occasion, though in hindsight one has to admit that Balin may have had a point. He heaves himself from his lair, not actually prepared to disturb his royal cousin from a night of well-deserved rest. "Thorin…" he asks before he leaves the room. "Will I see you again?"

"I'm not going anywhere right now," the ghost returns and fades on the spot. Dwalin shakes his head and sets out toward Dáin's chambers.

 

It takes them many weeks to recover what they believe to be all the remains that can be found of Smaug's victims. The recoveries do not go entirely without incident, but considering the severity of the ghost attacks prior to Thorin's warning, the spirits seem to be comparatively peaceful. Bifur was the one who pointed out that the burial chambers appeared to be safe although they are located deep inside the mountain. The best idea they have is to gather all bodies and give them a proper farewell.

Thorin is at Dwalin's side almost constantly, but Dwalin seems to be the only one who perceives his presence. Without quite being aware of it Dwalin becomes used to the cold breeze that surrounds him. He looks out for Thorin again, makes mental notes to ask his opinion on matters, and before long it happens again that he turns to meet his friend's eye on a regular basis because Thorin is actually standing behind him. The ghost is quite useful too because he senses danger before Dwalin does.

In the evenings they have time to talk, sometimes alone and sometimes in bizarre conversations with Balin who does not see Thorin but still finds comfort in his presence. It might have been amusing to see Balin talk into the void, never quite looking into the right direction and relying on Dwalin's rendition of Thorin's answers, except that it is not.

"The way things are going, we could be done in another week," Balin says one evening after a particularly long but uneventful tour to the storage rooms in the upper levels. They found a group of bodies there, but that can hardly faze them by now. The dead are everywhere. Dwalin feels that he has nearly exhausted his capacity for grief, and it leaves behind a bleak, lifeless void in his soul.

"Only if they leave us alone." Thorin leans against the wall and crosses his translucent arms over his chest. 

"They did so far," Dwalin returns. "I'm still saying they know what we're doing and want us to continue. Perhaps they're tired of being here."

"That must be so," Thorin concedes. "But we cannot be sure. They do not know who or what they are. They are dangerous."

Dwalin repeats the words for his brother but cannot think of anything to add. Balin nods, and then he looks up with a wary expression, as though he wants to say something but is not sure how to phrase it. Thorin frowns, and Dwalin looks from one to the other in confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing." Balin leans back in his chair and turns his mug of ale in his hands. Thorin's eyes narrow, and suddenly Dwalin does not like the expression on his face.

"I do not think he believes you, brother mine," he points out.

"He knows me too well." Balin smiles sadly. "It's just a thought, but you're not going to like it. Thorin… can you tell when it starts? Do you know when the ghost of a good dwarrow begins to lose himself and becomes a bitter and vengeful spirit?"

This is not a thought Dwalin wants to dwell on, and though it has occurred to him before he has always banished it to the farthest corner of his mind. One can always trust Balin to voice the uncomfortable truths. He turns to Thorin to meet his gaze, but freezes at his friend's expression.

Thorin's light blue eyes have turned to a paler shade. His face is rapidly losing all colour, except for a streak of violent crimson that begins to appear on his forehead where the battle wound was. The air around them seems to freeze.

"You have no right to question this," the ghost snarls at Balin, who cannot hear him but clearly noticed the temperature change, for his eyes are widening in shock. "Dwalin, tell him to keep out of it. I know what I'm doing."

He vanishes without another word, leaving the brothers shivering in a rush of cold. Dwalin shrugs and pretends to be unruffled.

"He thinks he can handle it," he tells Balin. His brother slowly shakes his head and does not reply.

 

Several weeks after their disappearance, three of the missing soldiers are found in a storage chamber deep inside the mines. The entrance of the chamber is blocked by an ancient pile of rubble, and the bodies are mummified and covered in a thick layer of dust. Only their Iron Hills armour distinguishes them from the countless dead dwarrows who have been lying here for fourteen decades. Of their companions no trace is ever discovered.

 

There are halls beneath the halls of the Mountain, huge caves that may well reach the heart of the earth, dark and bottomless and deeper than the mines themselves. No dwarf has ever explored them entirely, aware as they are of the ancient evil that awaited those who delved too deep in Khazad-Dum. Now these caves are given to the dead, and hundreds of bodies that lay restless for so long will finally be returned to the rock they were made of.

All that was found of them is brought here, every body, every piece of splintered bone, every half-molten axe and signed hair bead of those who were burned to cinder. Soldiers and merchants will rest forever side by side, scholars and craftspeople, adults and children. They are enough to fill an entire town with talk and songs and laughter, but now they are stretched in rows and rows of endless silence. There is no telling how many more were lost to the flames. Prayers will be held for those as well, so their spirits may be put to rest along with the others.

The darkness is alight with a thousand candles when the funeral begins. Every living dwarf in Erebor is assembled here this day, and it is Dáin who steps forward, for they have no priest among their number. The King is clad in heavy robes of dark velvet, his crownless head shaded by a hood. His rich, clear voice echoes from the far walls as he breaks into an ancient chant while he cuts his beard in ritual mourning. The chants and prayers are taken up by the others, so that before long the entire Mountain is filled with deep dwarven voices. Dwalin begins to lose all sense of time and place as he sings along with the others. He honours his mother whose burned tools were found near the training grounds where she must have gone to search for him, his friend Alfur whose body was crushed by a dragon's claw while he tried to defend the Gate, his favourite teacher who perished in the library with a group of students when the door broke down and they were trapped inside. Countless others he knew and cherished, and he sings for them and also for those he knew not but mourns regardless. 

On and on the chants continue until they fill the air so thickly that one could almost touch them, warm and vibrant and moving in the half-light, and then Dwalin thinks he can hear it: a low whispering beneath the song, the murmur of a hundred voices running through the ancient hall, carried away in a warm, dry wind. It grows so strong that it tangles Dwalin's hair and beard, and then a golden glow reflects from the cavern walls for a moment before it fades quickly.

When the chanting ends, there remains only silence.

 

A marked sense of relief lies over the Mountain when the works continue during the next days without any incident whatsoever. Dwalin is not the only one who feels like a shadow was removed from the ancient ruins, a sense of doom that had affected them all. The toils seem lighter now, the spirits less gloomy, and even though nothing can erase the pain that came with their losses in battle, it is not only the ghosts who were able to move on with a proper farewell.

Dwalin had feared never to see Thorin again after the ceremony, but his worries proved to be unfounded. His friend awaits him in his quarters after the funeral. “They are gone,” he states, and that is all he will say on the subject. He does not say where they went. An unanswered question lingers in the room, but Dwalin will not ask and Thorin does not volunteer. They simply continue their strange routine, and Dwalin tells himself that there is nothing to worry about.

If the shadows under Thorin’s eyes seem deeper than before and his hair is greyer than Dwalin remembers, surely he is imagining things.

 

It takes a few days before Dwalin mentions Thorin’s continued presence to his brother. He is not sure why he did not speak of it before. Likely it was just that there were more pressing matters to be discussed.

“Thorin says they will not come back,” he tells Balin over dinner when the latter questions the safety of regular work in the mines. It is meant to be a reassuring statement and there is definitely no lingering unrest in the back of his mind as he speaks of it. Balin looks up sharply.

“He is still here?”

“Aye.”

Balin pauses and stares into his mug. Dwalin hopes he will give it a pass, but he should have known better.

“Dwalin,” his brother says eventually, his voice steady but very quiet. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

Dwalin clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“He is dead, nadadith.” There is compassion and grief in Balin’s dark eyes, but his voice does not falter. “You both need to accept that. I know what he means to you, but you have to let him go.”

“This does not…”

Dwalin trails off when the temperature in the room drops dramatically. Balin’s eyes widen as his breath clouds in the freezing air. Then the brass lamp above them crashes down, missing Balin’s head by inches.

Balin jumps to his feet and glares into the void.

“I’m not taking that back, Thorin!” he says sharply. “Look what you’re doing! You must leave before it’s too late!”

Dwalin draws a sharp breath, but realizes that there is nothing to say. A wave of cold swirls through the room and dissolves into nothing, leaving the walls of the chamber covered in thin ice.

 

Thorin returns the next evening. He looks drawn and ill, and his whole demeanor warns Dwalin not to speak of that which they should speak about. Dwalin knows that they must do so eventually, for they are not cowards who shrink away from things they fear. Deep down he knows that this was never meant to last, and for all they like to pretend otherwise, it is not as it should be in any respect. They are close, but they can never touch. Never again will he feel the reassuring weight of Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, never grip the slick skin of a naked thigh to shove his king into the nearest wall, never drown in a kiss that makes him forget the pain of exile for one precious moment. 

They are on two sides of a gaping chasm that is too wide to reach across, deluded by false hope just because their fingers are nearly touching. And now he has convinced himself that their bond of the mind is enough, the breach between them is drifting further apart.

It hurts his very soul and yet fills an aching hole in Dwalin’s chest. Surely it cannot hurt to hold on for one more day, one more week, one more lifetime.

 

He should have known that the proceedings of the next day would bring doom.

“There are elves in my mountain,” Thorin snarls, and Dwalin quickens his pace to return a modicum of warmth to his own body. “Why are there elves in my mountain?”

“They are our allies, Thorin,” Dwalin reminds him without turning around. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”

“If I have to look that treacherous blackmailing bastard into the eyes _one more time_ …”

“Well you don’t have to!” Dwalin snaps. “Dáin does. Do me a favour and keep out of it, yes?”

Thorin glowers and dissolves beside him without another word. Dwalin continues his way toward the Great Banquet Hall without interruption, sturdily ignoring his growing fear that something is going spectacularly wrong.

It is the first diplomatic feast to be held in the newly reclaimed Mountain. The repairs are nowhere near finished and the caravans from the Blue Mountains have not arrived yet, but the elven king has deigned to pay them a visit and see how the affairs in the neighboring reigns are developing, and also to engage in the first negotiations about trade goods.

Dáin has personally shown the royal entourage around and talked to their king for the rest of the day. Now the dwarves are resolved to prove themselves as gracious hosts even if the feast cannot be as plentiful as Erebor’s glory used to promise. Dáin and Thranduil are seated at the end of the long table, with the dwarves of Thorin’s company, as their close relations to the king demand, in their immediate vicinity. Wine and ale are lifting the spirits, and so far their visitors have been reasonably polite. Even Thranduil seems amiable enough, arrogant bastard that he is.

Dwalin would feel better if he were not freezing to the bone, with a hatred that is not his own burning in the back of his mind. It is dark and vicious and does not feel familiar at all.

_They are allies,_ he thinks furiously. _Don’t spoil this. They are allies._

All goes well until the conversation turns towards craftsmanship. Dáin should probably have known it was not the safest topic to engage in with an elf, but like all dwarves he is too proud of the outstanding achievements of his people to avoid it. More than that, though, the dwarf king is open-minded and curious about foreign techniques and styles of workmanship.

“We do not tinker much with the beauty of nature,” Thranduil informs them. “It is perfection invoked by the will of the Valar. It is our way to preserve it as much as we can.”

“Aye, but the Gods have not always revealed the true form,” Dáin argues, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “It lies hidden in every structure of the stone from the smallest gem to the highest mountain. My folk, we have the eyes to see, and the skill to shape it to perfection.”

“Perfection is not a thing mortals can achieve,” the elf replies smoothly, and Dwalin grits his teeth to avoid a diplomatic incident. Balin scowls and opens his mouth, but then he winces and shoots Dáin a glare. The king ignores him.

“Ah, but we’ll have to disagree on that, my friend,” he says genially. “I understand your folk also pride themselves of some outstanding craftspeople. Surely they will always thrive for the ultimate beauty, but you cannot claim them superior to ours.”

“I am not so foolish,” concedes the elf king. “But it may be that my people are more cautious when it comes to earthly values. We have seen that the love of treasure leads to greed, and greed leads to madness and ruin.”

Dwalin knows without a doubt that this was the absolute worst thing to say.

Balin knows it too, and his face turns white. "That is debatable," he interjects quickly. “Surely you don't mean to say…”

He breaks off when the ground starts to shake.

Tendrils of ice begin sprout all over the floor and rapidly spread into solid sheets. There are gasps from the crowd as the temperature falls rapidly, further and further, more than it ever has in the deadliest winters of Dwalin’s life. It feels like the air itself is draining the warmth of life out of every being and replacing it with the merciless cold of death. 

The air smells strongly of blood.

Balin clutches his arm and Dwalin knows he is the only one who can put an end to this.

“Thorin!” he shouts desperately. “Stop this! You are killing us all!”

He thinks he can see a figure in the air, the shadow of an angry dwarrow whose long hair is moving in an invisible breeze. Beside him Balin gasps in shock. 

“I can see him!” he exclaims. “Thorin! Please!”

The ghost does not seem to hear him. Dwalin is frantically searching for the right words to reach his friend, but before he can speak again, a cool voice interrupts the general panic.

“Forgive me, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thranduil has risen from his chair. The cold does not seem to affect his graceful movements nor his proud bearing, and now he is looking straight at Thorin.

“I did not mean to slight you,” he says calmly. “I was referring to the lore of my own folk, the deeds that were brought about by Feanor's desire for the Silmarils. Also I assure you that I never meant to harm you or your people. While I was doing what I thought best for my own, I have done wrong by you and your kin.” He bows his head towards the spirit. “Please accept my apology.”

There is a moment of speechless silence.

Then, after what seem to be ages in a world that was utterly depraved of life, the warmth is returning. Shouts of relief fill the hall as the blood begins to course again in the veins of elves and dwarves, as feeling begins to return to arms and legs and breathing has ceased to be an agony. Thranduil takes his seat again with an expression Dwalin feels himself unable to read. 

“Now,” he addresses Dáin nonchalantly. “May I ask your opinion on the rebuilding of Dale?”

 

It is late when Dwalin returns to his quarters that evening. The feast was salvaged well, for apparently the elves were not overly disturbed by the presence of a vengeful ghost in these halls, at least not by one who could be argued with. Afterwards both Dáin and Balin made sure to give Dwalin a generous piece of their own mind, but they might have spared themselves the trouble. He knows what he must do.

Thorin is sitting on the bed when he enters the chamber. He looks tired and older than Dwalin has ever seen him before. His hair has turned entirely to grey, his skin has taken a sickly pallor, and deep rings are shadowing his eyes. The battle wound on his forehead is clearly visible and slowly oozing a trickle of blood.

Dwalin walks towards him, but does not sit down. He is not afraid of the spirit but cannot bear to be close to him right now, knowing as he does what needs to happen. Thorin looks up and gives him a sad smile.

"I have come to tell you goodbye," he says simply.

Dwalin releases the breath he did not realize he was holding.

"I know," he returns, grateful that he does not have to suggest it but still heartbroken by the reality.

"It should not have come to this. Please tell Dáin that I am sorry."

"It was not your fault." Dwalin sinks onto the bed at last. Thorin stares at his own hands, and Dwalin realizes that they are shaking violently. He wishes he could cover them with his own and hold them still.

"Thorin, that was not you. It's like the gold sickness again, right? It wasn't your fault then, and it isn't now. You told me so yourself."

"We're not meant to linger. Yes, I told you so. I should have listened to Balin, I should have left in time."

"I did not want you to leave."

Their eyes meet and they understand each other, just like they always do. Thorin chuckles softly.

"You realize that this is not the end? We will meet again. Our souls will be entwined until the remaking of the world."

"And beyond." Dwalin's voice is remarkably steady as they exchange the vow they never thought to make while Thorin was alive. "But I will see you before that."

"It is not so long, if one is not bound to mortal time," Thorin assures him. "Meanwhile you will take care of our mountain and I will wait for you. We can do that, can we not?"

"Aye." It is not like Dwalin has a choice about it.

Thorin smiles his rarest smile, the one that lightens up his face and makes him look truly happy. He lifts his hand, and Dwalin almost reaches out to take it before he remembers that there is no flesh to touch.

"Farewell, âzyungâl," his friend says simply. "Lead a blessed life."

"I love you," Dwalin tells him, because it is the only thing that seems fitting.

The figure before him fades. There is a short burst of wind, like a cold breeze that engulfs him and makes him shiver for a moment.

Then it is gone.

 

**Epilogue**

Erebor, the golden kingdom of the dwarves, is a place of beauty and life. The large halls are filled with voices and laughter, with dwarven craftsmen and artists and officials bustling along the spiraling staircases and across railingless bridges. The noise of raucous feasts sound from the banquet halls, and the clatter of axes and soldiers' curses are heard from the training grounds. One needs to take care not to stumble over children chasing after tiny mechanical oliphaunts, or to bump into scholars with stacks of books and parchments on their way to the library. The markets are overflowing with precious goods from all corners of Middle Earth.

They have come a long way, Dwalin muses as he leads his pony through the side entrance near the stables from where one has a splendid view over Dale and the lake. The wounds that the Great War has brought over the lands and its people are almost healed, except for those that come from the loss of friends and loved ones, because those never fully heal. Dáin is the latest of many such losses, and the pain of his passing is still vivid in the hearts of his people. He was a good king and an even better friend. Dwalin would gladly have offered his own life in exchange.

But Dáin has left them a prospering kingdom and an heir who has taken up the crown with the same determination and competence that his father used to show.

Thorin Stonehelm steps beside Dwalin and punches him lightly on the arm.

"Don't get sentimental in your old age, guardsman," he admonishes with a wink. "There's dirty work to do. The orc marauders won't wait for us to have a picnic before we come after them."

"You'd best stay here for a picnic, laddie," Dwalin grumbles. "Your father would have my head if he knew I'd let you come along."

"My father always saw the wisdom of personal involvement in the defense of the realm." The young king grins brightly and mounts his goat with a flourish. "And I've got my best guards with me, haven't I?"

Behind him Bifur lets out a barking laugh. " _Taking the grandfathers out for a ride,_ " he scoffs, which is not quite true because they are accompanied by three more dwarrows who are closer to the king's age. 

"Still my best guards, if you'd get your old bones mounted sometime today," the lad returns cheerfully and turns his steed towards the road. Dwalin swings into the saddle with the last bit of grace he possesses, which gives him some difficulty because the pony is nervous and tries to break away. He struggles for a moment to get it under control. 

When he looks up, Thorin is standing beside him.

He looks just as Dwalin likes to remember him, young and healthy and strikingly handsome. The worry lines on his face are gone, his eyes are shining brightly, and his smile is more radiant than Dwalin has seen it ever since the dragon came. There is no trace of the illness that tainted his features when Dwalin last saw him over a century ago.

Dwalin opens his mouth to speak, but Thorin shakes his head. He lifts one hand in farewell, and then he is gone.

It is as well, Dwalin thinks, because he knows what it means and he is ready for it. He has been ready for many years.

And so he turns his mount to follow the King of Erebor one last time.


End file.
